Brenda Janowitz: Jack With a Twist

“Of course you get top billing,” I say, just as a waiter breezes by with a platter of mini hot dogs. Jack and I both grab one at the same time.

“These are my favorite,” I say, dipping my mini hot dog into the mustard and then grabbing for a cocktail napkin. I have to do a double take when I look at the monogram—BSJ—for Brooke and Jack Solomon.

We are officially husband and wife.

“Mine too!” Jack says, dipping his mini hot dog into the mustard and then popping the whole thing into his mouth.

“I know,” Vanessa says, smiling. “A good maid of honor does her research.”

And she had. In fact, all of Jack’s and my favorites were there: a potato bar in one corner, a caviar station in the other, tuna tartar and tiny vegetable dumplings being passed around by elegant waiters in pristine white jackets, and even a martini bar.

And then, of course, there’s lots of kosher meat, lovingly supplied by my dad.

As Jack and I approach the prime rib carving station, I overhear my father trying to convince Jack’s mother to taste a tiny piece of his meat.

I assure you, this conversation does not sound even half as dirty as I just made it out to be.

And, anyway, get your mind out of the gutter, you horn dog, I’m talking about my wedding day here, for God’s sake!

“It’s kosher,” my father pleads. “It’s blessed by a higher power.”

“That’s really not the issue, Barry,” Joan says, eyeing a crudité platter nearby.

“Then what is the issue?” he asks, “I’d really love for you to love my meat.”

Okay, yes, I admit, that last part does sound a bit off.

“I just like to watch my weight,” Joan says, running her hands across her hips without even knowing it.

“It’s your son’s wedding,” my father says, lowering his voice and talking to her like he’s a high-school senior who’s got a freshman girl in his car after curfew. “Live a little.”

“It’s not just that, Barry,” she says. “I’ve had a lifetime struggle with my weight, and sticking to a vegetarian diet is really the only way I’ve found that helps me to keep the weight off.”

“Is that what it is?” my father asks. “My Mimi eats my meat all the time and still stays thin as a rail. I can get you some really lean cuts that are low in fat, but will load you up with protein, so that you don’t feel hungry when you’re dieting.”

After then assuring her that her figure is gorgeous anyway, my father promises to get Joan what he called his “Mimi cuts” that would help her to diet more effectively. I could have sworn that I later even heard my mom giving Joan some of her best diet tips.

Which is odd, seeing as she never really shares them with me.

The band begins to play and Jack puts his hand out for me to take. I can’t help but recall that other time that Jack and I danced at a wedding—when we were at my ex-boyfriend’s wedding and I was pretending that Jack was my Scottish fiancé so that I could keep my dignity ever-so-slightly intact. Long story.) It was at that wedding, on that dance floor, that I realized that Jack was the man of my dreams and that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.

We’ve had countless ups and downs since that night—too many even to think about—but we finally made it here. To the day of all days. Our wedding day. Where we’re dancing as husband and wife, and I truly couldn’t be happier.

Now, here, in the middle of Millie’s art gallery, I look around the room and see friends and family. All of the people who mean the most to us in this world. My parents, Jack’s parents, Jack’s sisters and brothers-in-law and Vanessa…All here for us. To celebrate this day with us.

It may not be the Pierre Hotel in Manhattan and it may not be a temple on the South Shore of Long Island, but all in all, I couldn’t have had a more perfect wedding if I’d actually planned it myself.

It is the happiest day of my life.

“Oh, my God, Vanessa,” I say, staring at her as she comes out of the fitting room, “you look so beautiful I think I’m going to cry!” And then, since I’m not the type to let a good occasion to turn on the waterworks pass, my eyes begin to tear up.

“Please don’t cry,” Vanessa says.

“You just look so beautiful,” I say, dabbing at a tear.

We’re at Monique’s townhouse where Vanessa’s trying on muslins for the wedding dress that Monique will be making Vanessa for her wedding to Marcus. (Her second wedding to Marcus, for those of you who are keeping count. And if you’re my mother, yes, it’s her second wedding to a doctor. And I haven’t even married one doctor yet. Now, I know Marcus isn’t a Jewish doctor, but still, in my mother’s eyes, a doctor is a doctor is a doctor).

“I hate it,” Vanessa’s mother, Millie says, “take it off.” And then, to Monique, “do you have anything with capped sleeves? It would hide how—how—skinny her arms are.” She whispers the word skinny as if, though standing two feet away from her, Vanessa cannot hear her.

“I can hear you. And I’m not skinny,” Vanessa counters, “I’m a runner.”

“When we were models, we had curves.” Millie says to Monique. And then, to Vanessa: “Maybe you should stop running a few months before the wedding. Just to let yourself fill out a little.”

“I don’t need to fill out,” Vanessa says to no one in particular. I offer Vanessa the glass of champagne Monique served us when we walked in, but Vanessa shakes her head “no.”

“Maybe Brooke can give you some tips,” Millie says. “Honey, what do you do to keep your curves so nice and curvy?”

“I eat raw cookie dough straight from the roll when I’m upset.” I offer, going for the rest of Vanessa’s champagne, but Vanessa’s got it before I do and downs the whole thing in one gulp.

“You know,” Millie says, “when I got married, I was Yves Saint Laurent’s muse.”

I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room just as Vanessa is formulating an answer to her mother. Something about inheriting the brains of the family instead of the hips.

It’s strange, but for the past month I haven’t been able to kick this stomach flu that’s been going around. Sure, since I began taking the lead on cases at my law firm, I’ve been busier, but I don’t think that I’m so run down as to be ill for a whole month. Or maybe it’s the stress from becoming so incredibly important to the firm. Now that I’m running cases on my own, I’m sure I’ll be making partner any day now. Surely that must be it.

“I was the same way when I was pregnant with Vanessa,” Millie says as I walk out of the bathroom and back into the showroom.

“But, I’m not pregnant,” I say, laughing. I subconsciously put my hand over my stomach. Sure, it’s not as flat as it used to be, but in my new role as perfect little wife, I’ve been cooking for Jack and myself just about every night, and everyone knows when you cook a lot, you tend to taste everything.

Okay, okay, well, not so much as cooking every night as ordering in and then putting it onto paper plates. But I’m sure to put it onto very fancy paper plates, thank you very much! And I already told you that I’m becoming absolutely indispensable at my firm, so I really don’t have much time to be home cooking all the time, so get off my back, would you?

And, anyway, my husband seems to think that I am a woman of many other talents, so there.

So, I certainly don’t have any time to be barefoot and pregnant. Which I’m not. And I most certainly do not look pregnant, thank you very much! And even if I was, I wouldn’t be barefoot. I’d be pregnant in, like, totally cute shoes.